Fandom: Final Fantasy VI.
Theme: #11) Bolt; Lightning; Thunder.
Disclaimer: Not mine at all. They’re Squeenix’. I just borrow them.
“Don't be scared!” The older of the two boys said, watching his younger brother huddle under his cloak by the window. “A nobleman should never be scared.”
His voice almost didn't falter as he spoke.
Sourly, the younger one thought his brother had to be concentrating hard to avoid faltering.
“I'm not scared!” He returned, his voice holding almost as much of a sting as the lightening outside.
He was not scared. He was fascinated.
As the two watched, the night sky lit up, followed almost instantly by a loud rumble, the ground seeming to shake.
The older boy jumped, but tried to hide it. He couldn't show weakness in front of his brother.
The younger boy jumped, pressing pale hands to the cold window. He felt almost elated.
To an casual viewer, the two boys would seem as different as night and day. The older one was maybe sixteen, more a young man than a boy, tall and strong, yet somehow diminished by the lightening storm. The smaller was maybe ten; a small, long-fingered boy whose blue eyes shone with fascination as they reflected the lightening strikes.
Their parents came into the darkened room, wondering what their sons were doing. He was a tall, stern looking man, the older boy's features clearly derived from his. She was smaller, leading a young girl by the hand, but her blonde hair and blue eyes were the same as the younger boy.
“What are you doing?” The father asked, looking at the older boy.
The dark-haired youth turned to his father, frantically hiding his relief. “Nothing, father.” He said, turning away from the windows, and the storm. “I was just thinking about asking you to play a game of Conqueror with me.”
The father offered a proud smile, the sort of smile that said “he is part of me”, and led the older boy away.
“What are you doing?” The mother asked, brushing her daughter's hair from her face as she spoke.
The pale boy didn't look to his mother, pressing against the window. “I'm trying to remember where I left my boots,” he said, his voice distant. Another lightening lit the sky. “I want to go outside.”
The mother shook her head. She did not understand her son. Promising her daughter a bedtime story, she led the girl away.
The boy didn't really notice his mother leaving.
After a while, he slipped out through the terrace door, his hunts for his boots forgotten. Standing out there, in the lightening storm, with his feet bare on the soaked granite and the rain falling on his face, he felt more alive than he could remember ever having felt before.
An old man hurried by, dragged by a pair of fine hounds on a leash. The boy could barely hear him say something about “that crazy Palazzo boy” over the sound of the storm.
He stifled a sudden and unbidden urge to laugh.
Hours later, curled up in bed with a cup of tea, his feet still feeling the chill from the rain-covered granite, he could still see the lightening when he closed his eyes. It amazed him. His father thought he had power, but it was nothing like the display of raw power that had occurred earlier.
One day, he would find a way to leash that power. The very idea sent chills down his spine in the best way possible. He would have true power, his father's flimsy games be damned. The power of words, and of old, useless titles, were nothing.
The smile on his face as he fell asleep, too wide and too manic, would have frightened anyone seeing it.